


Exile

by Redcrow



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Loneliness, M/M, Pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-20
Updated: 2013-03-20
Packaged: 2017-12-05 22:05:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/728401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redcrow/pseuds/Redcrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exile hurts even if it's for the best reasons.</p><p>Beautiful graphic by dramatisecho, thank you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exile

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [Exilio](https://archiveofourown.org/works/806881) by [randomsociopath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomsociopath/pseuds/randomsociopath)



He stood in the shadows, just inside the narrow alleyway, watching, silent and alone. The tall man, the thin man, the man who had almost lost himself. He watched the world go by, the people passing by him, unaware of him or the battle raging within him.

He was waiting, there was one man he needed to see, to know he was safe, to remind himself who he was and where his goal lay.

A uniform, a police officer passing by, too closely, made the man shrink back, further into the shadows but he kept watching, waiting, until he saw the good doctor. He stepped forward, not quite leaving the cover of the alleyway and it's protective walls but there he was, walking slowly, painfully. The man inhaled sharply, the pain in his chest deep and cutting. He could see the gold hair shot through with silver, the deep blue eyes, even from this distance and he had to reach out and support himself against the wall.

"John."

A single word fell from his lips unbidden, it sounded desperate and lonely and he hated himself for it as he was sure John hated him too.

He didn't know how to exist like this, how to continue, yet continue he did, alone and he was ashamed to admit even to himself, afraid.

A voice came to him then, reaching his ears over the distance between them and it caught somewhere deep inside him. For a moment he couldn't breathe.

"I can hear you talking." He whispered to himself as he watched the doctor talking to the stall holder.

"But I can't hear what you're saying."

The man began to see himself again, just faintly, just an impression but it was there and it was real and he could remember himself again. He couldn't reach that person yet, he couldn't reach John yet and he knew then that he would never be himself again until he could reach John.

He was lost, lost to the world and to himself and home was an army doctor who may well never want to see him again. The pain in his chest returned making him gasp and lean up against the wall. He put his hands on the cold, damp brickwork and let his head rest against it. He wondered what life would be like without pain, had his life ever been without pain? Could he ever be rid of it, would the drugs work or would that just send him spiralling downwards? He knew the answer to that, the question he couldn't answer was, could he carry on, could he continue until the job was done, could he go home?

The good doctor was moving away, his leg was paining him, he was using the stick again, the limp was back. With a heavy heart the man followed, at a distance, carefully, secretly. His pain seemed to increase with each faltering step the doctor took, he had never known pain like this, it wasn't physical, it couldn't be treated. He wanted nothing more than to walk up to his friend, put his arms around him and beg for forgiveness.

His breath almost stopped when the doctor turned, looking behind him but the man wasn't seen and he continued to follow, concerned when the doctor ducked down a side street. It was deserted, littered, just a service door and two rubbish skips and some large letters spray painted on the wall in red.  
'Moriarty was real'

The man stopped dead, his eyes wide, who would have done that, who knew, who cared?

John was standing stock still looking up at the graffiti, a strange expression on his face. The man edged closer, ducking behind one of the skips. From here he could see the doctor's face better, he looked determined, resolute, strong. The man's mouth dropped open as he watched the doctor rummage in a shopping bag and pull out a can of paint. He held his breath as John stepped up to the wall, shaking the can and he let that breath go as the sulfur yellow paint spelled out 'I Believe in Sherlock Holmes', bright on the dark brickwork.

"I still believe in you Sherlock and I always will." The doctor spoke the words loudly, clearly before dropping the can back in the bag and walking away.

Sherlock couldn't hold himself up any longer, his back hit the wall behind him and he slid down it as his knees refused to support him. He sat on the cold pavement and alone but with hope he allowed the tears fall.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: These characters are not mine, I just borrow them from time to time.


End file.
